


Yours,

by erhwrites



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bittersweet, Drabble, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Pining, Romance, Wanderlust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 04:50:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10734471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erhwrites/pseuds/erhwrites
Summary: On words written and words unspoken.(This belongs to I Damn Well Mean to Try but was posted first)





	Yours,

It is the way she signs her letters, whether following sparse and coded secrets, or long and thoughtful accounts written in all-to-rare moments of respite. From the fireside, from inn rooms, the paper is always in various levels of wear after its journey, the ink always a slightly different shade. Sometimes dusty, sometimes sun-bleached, sometimes stained by rain or smoke, the carefully folded paper would arrive with an Immortal Flames seal in wax she likely warmed between her own fingertips. Each letter ends with “Yours,” and a letter A rather than her name.

The words preceding it he reads voraciously: fantastic tales that would be wholly unbelievable if told by anyone else, regardless of their detail. He covers wide distances, through his walls of stone and the bleak fog beyond them, carried by messages brief and long alike. Her handwriting is unrefined but legible, her style conversational to the point that he can sometimes hear her speaking, see her gesturing with one hand as she holds a goblet of wine in the other. 

There is freedom in her words, but weight as well. He can feel her tired smile, the callouses on her hands, the darkness following her close behind, the burden behind the pen strokes. And yet, there too he feels the blissful sting of the wind on his face while flying, and smell the smoke from the fire. He can hear the trees creak, feel the heat of the sun-baked sand under his boots. Through her words he is transported, or wills himself to be. She is somehow _everywhere_ , while he is anchored in place–and he envies it, dreams about it, wants it for himself. He reads her letters as soon as he can touch them, the only interruption to break the repetition of his own burdens. He reads them again and again, and always puzzles over their final word.

 _“Yours.”_  

Aymeric laughs inwardly in spite of himself, but remains fixated on it all the same. The very concept is ridiculous, really: the word itself would suggest any sort of ownership or claim to a woman who is somehow more than a woman, a woman who is everywhere and everyone’s. Merely entertaining the idea that the word is anything more than a tender pleasantry at the end of a letter is not worth losing sleep over, but at the same time he knows her too well to assume she would not choose her words more carefully. She is honest, but she is guarded, because she has to be. She is more than the person writing the letters; she is a symbol, a rallying cry, a savior. She is a force of nature, a storm of aether made flesh, feared by many and beloved by more. She could never be truly “yours.”

And yet…

The word makes him think of the times when she is simply herself, times when she is just the woman who wears the title: the woman who is compassionate, and brave, and funny, with freckles on her shoulders and eyes the color of sage—the woman who is impatient, and stubborn, and proud, with a loud laugh and ticklish feet. It makes him think of the letters in which she tells him she will see him soon, for one reason or another, and of the stolen days or hours that follow, the days or hours that never seem to last more than moments. In these moments, she is herself and she is _his,_ for the fleeting time in which she can be. He holds fast to her as tightly as one might grasp a flame in his bare hands, and though the heat burns him at last he can say “ _You are mine._ ” She is his, all distance that existed between them traversed in short breaths, in touch reverent and desperate.  He does not say the words, but he knows she can hear them. He can hear her, too, even when she doesn’t make a sound: he can hear it in every warm touch of her hand, in every fervent look into his eyes, in every sleepy smile at dawn. He clings to her as she unravels in his arms, all of her power surrendered, and though it is his name she speaks over and over, he knows he can hear her say _“I am **yours**.“_


End file.
